Standing Hollow
by this is only a test
Summary: Even at the twelve, Tim was progessing fast towards the notorious gang leader he'd soon become. Very prebook.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing.

Tim leaned against the side of his house, cigarette between his fingers, watching the smoke swirl off the tip. The air was crisp against his skin. He was shivering with a mere t-shirt as protection, but the cold couldn't make him go back inside. At the moment, he'd rather freeze to death than just so much as be in the same room as his so-called family. They weren't a family, at least not a complete one, and sometimes, he wasn't even sure they were people.

He pressed the cigarette to his lips and inhaled, hoping the nicotine would sink in quickly.

He grumbled. Even through the thick walls of his house, he could hear his mom going at it with his bastard stepfather again. He hated it; he hated them. They were always bickering about something, and the screaming and hollering never seemed to end. He did his best to ignore it, but it was useless. He could still hear it—all of it.

The door swung open suddenly. "Timothy, you're gonna catch a cold. Get your ass in here," his mother called tersely. He glanced at her, but turned back and took a puff of the cigarette, ignoring her. "And put that damn cigarette out!" she added. "You're twelve, for chrissakes."

Twelve… twenty… it didn't make a bit of difference to him how old he was, he was still going to smoke it. Sometimes the nicotine was the only thing that kept him sane, even at his young age. He could thank his dad for that addiction. The old man had bought him his first pack at eleven, and he'd been smoking them anytime he could get his hands on them ever since.

He sneered, blowing the smoke in her face. "What's it to ya?"

She bit her lip. "You want me to tell your father about this?" she threatened, but he knew she didn't mean his real father. She meant Tom, the lousy man she'd had an affair with nine years ago.

"Tom ain't my dad," he said under his breath. He may have been Curly and Angela's dad, but he wasn't his. Sure, he lived with him, and sure, he saw him more than his own, but that still didn't make him his dad—not even with the word "step" in front of it. He hated Tom and everything about him, the way he called him 'boy' and always shoved him aside. It seemed like the only time Tom ever paid attention to him was when he was yelling at him or knocking him around. Some father figure he was.

"Well, Tom's the closest thing ya got to one," she said, eying him closely.

It was a lie just like it always was. He had a father, a real one, but for whatever reason, she didn't want him to believe that. She had always claimed the man was no good and that was why she left, but Tim knew better. She had cheated on him with Tom, and Curly was the result, but she still she shoved it down Tim's throat like it was his fault she ever was in a relationship with his old man in the first place. She always told him she should be thankful she'd found Tom and that he was willing to be a step parent because Lord knows that his father was the root of all evil, the devil himself in human form. But Tim knew a different man; besides Curly and Angela, he was one of the few people in his family he didn't mind calling family. He rarely got to see him, but he wished more than anything that he could live with him instead of in this hellhole now.

"Tim," his mom screeched again. "Now."

"I ain't goin' nowhere."

"The hell you ain't," she said, grabbing his arm. She took the cigarette out of his fingers and threw in on the ground, putting it out with her shoe. He jerked his arm away from her, trying to break free from her grip, but her grasp was strong.

"Knock it off," she said, cuffing him upside the head. He gritted his teeth from the impact and spat on her face. She loosened her grip on him unintentionally as her hands went to wipe the spit off her face. Tim yanked his arm away from her again, this time breaking free, and took off running.

"You get back here!" She ran after him, wiping away the remaining spit, but he already too far ahead.

He had no clue where he was going, but he really didn't care. Somewhere, anywhere, that wasn't home sounded just fine to him.

The wind pelted his face as he went, and his legs began to hurt. He was tired and cold, but there was no way in hell he was going back; at least not for now. He finally stopped when he reached an empty lot between two buildings, sat down against the side of one and caught his breath. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out the last cigarette he had on him and lit it.

He was too young for this shit.

He was just a kid—a kid, dammit. He shouldn't have to deal with the things he did. There was never a calm moment in his house, every second of possible silence filled with chaos. His mom and Tom's fighting never seemed to end, and he wasn't sure how much more of it he could handle hearing. He had tried to tune it out by standing outside, but there was no point in it; he was still able to hear the entire argument. And when the yelling finally had stopped, his mother just had to bother him. He didn't understand why his standing outside in the cold suddenly mattered—it wasn't like she'd ever really cared about him before.

If she did, it certainly didn't seem like it.

She never bothered to show for anything he did in school. He was always the kid left without a parent in the audience, and even simple things, like making sure he had a lunch to take to school with him everyday, were apparently too much to ask of her. There were many days he went hungry, forced to bear the ridicule of the other kids, taunting him for being too poor to have a meal. He brushed them off, told them to "get lost", and pretended their words meant nothing to him, but they did. They really did.

He put up a front because he had to. He was Tim Shepard, a real tough Greaser. He already had the respect of older gang members at his young age. Everyone knew that Tim Shepard could put up a fight, and he was the tuffest twelve year in town to them. But no one knew how much he hurt, how much he wished he could just be a normal kid.

He'd kill to be like most kids, to have parents that gave a shit. He was sick of always coming home to a mess, sick of listening to the screaming, and just sick having to worry like he did. Other kids didn't have to worry about having a lunch for school, or looking at their stepdad the wrong way. They got to be carefree, they got to be innocent, but he never would.

He took another drag of the cigarette and exhaled, knowing full and well it was all wishful thinking and that none of it would ever happen. No matter what, he'd be stuck right where he was.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

It didn't take Tim long to decide to head back home.

It wasn't regret for anything he'd said or done to his mother that influenced his decision; it wasn't even cold air that had nearly consumed him by now; it was Curly and Angela.

He always worried about them when he wasn't home, especially around Tom. His mother was a cow, but she wasn't the main reason for concern. When she drank, she turned into a useless, blubbering slob, practically harmless, but when his stepfather, _their_ _father_, drank, it was a completely different story

He was the perfect picture of an angry drunk, picking fights over the way people looked at him and reading into everything with contempt. Tim had endured his wrath on more than one occasion, and while he hated it, it bothered him even more when it was Curly or Angela. When he was home, he could successfully avert Tom's attention back to him and make him believe whatever they had done, if they _had_ done anything, was his fault.

Not that he had to do that often; he was the scapegoat of choice, just like he'd be tonight. He was already halfway home and dreading facing Tom. Tom'd already been at it with his mother and probably was probably drowning himself in a bottle of whiskey now. Tim could only hope his mother hadn't mentioned anything about his spitting on her face, but that was wishful thinking. Even though Tom fought with her more than anybody else, he sure as hell blew his lid if Tim did anything to disrespect her. That goddamned hypocrite could call her every insult under the sun, but Tim got his ass handed to him for simply cussing in her presence.

Spitting on her was sure to earn him a death sentence, but much to his shock, Tom was gone when he'd finally made it home.

He even double checked the garage and driveway to make sure his pile of crap junker was nowhere to be found. Relieved, he ventured towards his room, only to stop at the sight of his mother passed out on the couch.

Tim lingered at the end of the hallway and observed her. She looked like shit. There was a huge black eye he safely assumed was Tom's doing, and her makeup had run down her cheeks from crying. Tim clenched his fists and fought back tears himself.

As much as he swore he hated his mother, he didn't really _hate_ her. She was alright sometimes, and as mad as he'd ever been at her, she was still his mother. That was more than he could ever say about Tom, who'd never really be his father.

He wiped a tear off his cheek and finished the journey to his room. Once there, he threw his himself on the bed and slammed his face into the pillow, determined not to cry. Seeing his mother like that had done a number on him, and for the first time ever, he realized she was just as much a victim in this mess as he was. It was a harsh realization, and he was beginning to wish he'd treated her better. It was that black eye that got to him.

Even in the worst of fights, this was the first time Tom had actually hit her; at least to his knowledge, and he didn't even want to think about the possibility of other times.

"Tim…" Angela whispered and poked his arm. "Tim!"

He jumped a bit, startled to see his little sister awake at his hour. "What?" he groaned, slowly pulling himself up to face her.

"I'm scared," she said weakly.

His expression softened when he saw her tears. "Why's that?" he asked sympathetically

"Daddy punched Mommy."

Tim sighed. He was expecting a nightmare or the boogeyman or something—not that. He didn't want to talk about _that_, but here stood a very upset Angela, and as much as he'd like to tell her to leave him alone, he didn't have the heart do it.

He picked her up and helped her unto the bed next to him. He had no clue what to tell her—how the hell was he going to explain this to a six-year-old when he barely understood it himself? There weren't any words, so he simply did his best to calm her down. It was no easy task, and he could only assume she'd witnessed the entire thing by the way she was shaking. He put his arm around her shoulder and held her close as she cried.

"What's a whore, Tim?" she stammered after her tears had slowed.

He stared at her for moment and had to convince himself he'd actually heard her right. "Something you don't need to know," he grumbled in response. "Did Tom—I mean Dad—call Mom that?" He hated to call that man "Dad", but since Angela wasn't used to calling him by his first name, he supposed he had to.

She nodded.

He swallowed hard and fought the urge to throw something. If Tom had bothered to stick around, Tim fathomed he'd beat the shit out of the scuzz bag. Tom was still bigger and stronger, but he was getting tougher by the day and figured he could do some real damage if he was pissed enough.

"Tim," Angela broke into his thoughts. "Can I sleep in here tonight?"

"Yeah," he assured her. "Of course."

Comforted by his response, she rested her head against his shoulder.

"C'mon," he said, prying her off him and setting her near the top of the bed. "You need some sleep."

She laid her head on his pillow, and he pulled the covers over her. "I don't think he's ever coming back," she said.

Tim felt like saying he hoped so, but managed to hold his tongue for her sake. "Why do you say that?"

"He took some stuff with 'im," she rambled on. "And he took all the money out of the jar in the kitchen…"

As much as the bastard stealing his mom's money pissed him off, Tim was still elated to hear it. Young as Angela was, she was smart to pick up on Tom's real plans, and Tim only hoped she was right. Still, she seemed clearly bothered by it, so he hid his emotion under a straight face.

"Don't worry 'bout that tonight, Angie," he told her, wiping the remaining tears off her cheeks. "And whatever happens, we'll be okay."

"Promise?"

"Promise," he said. "Now go to sleep."

It didn't take long for her to pass out, but Tim was wide awake. He laid down beside his sister and tried as hard as he could to drift off, but the events of the night were clouding his mind. Was Tom _really_ leaving for good?

XXX

Much to Tim's dismay, Tom had returned the next morning, but only to grab more things and announce his departure for good.

Angela and Curly cried the whole time, and his mother was oddly silent, only bothering to send Tom the iciest glares Tim had ever seen out of her.

When the car was loaded, Tom walked in the house once more and crouched down in front of Curly and Angela, but in the end, he was too much of a coward to say anything. He hugged Angela and ruffled Curly's hair and got up to leave.

Their mother shook her head and hugged them both close to her. "You bastard." Her voice was strained and tired, but still carried force behind it. "You fucking bastard, leaving me here with your children, and you ain't even got the decency to tell 'em why!"

Tom said nothing. He simply stood idly in the doorway.

Angela ran up to him and hugged him. "Don't leave us, Daddy," she begged, but he pried her off him. "Go back to your momma," he told her bitterly, nudging her away from him.

She tried to go after him again, but Tim reached out and held her back.

He glared at Tom, who nodded in return. "Guess you're the man of the house now," Tom said. "Take care of your mother."

And with that, he was gone. Tim scowled; at twelve, he was more of a man than Tom ever had been or ever would be. He wondered how somebody could have the balls to tell him to "take care of his mother" after pulling something so spineless, but eventually it'd prove to be the only time he'd ever listened to Tom.

He would take care of his mother—and Curly and Angela, too.


End file.
